


good company

by lahtays



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Wound Tending, blood mention, loosely inspired by That scene from the old guard, this isn't established relationship but oh boy it might as well be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25441009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahtays/pseuds/lahtays
Summary: Ava is exposed to a Trapper's modified DMB formula, preventing her injuries from healing. A guilt-ridden Detective Maddox helps with the aftermath.
Relationships: Detective/Ava du Mortain, Female Detective/Ava du Mortain
Comments: 6
Kudos: 80





	good company

**Author's Note:**

> loosely inspired by that iconic wound-tending scene from the netflix adaption of "the old guard". if you haven't seen it, i highly recommend!

“This might sting a little. Are you ready?” 

“You needn't worry about me. I'm more than capable of – _ah!_ _Futue te ipsum!_ ” 

“Sorry!” 

Ava's eyes water as another wave of pain flashes white hot up her arm, and while she can't see through the tears in her vision, she hears the ringing _crack!_ of Beatrice's dining table loud enough to know she'll be replacing it before the week is through. 

Dark hair falls about Beatrice's face as she hunches over Ava's injured shoulder, each strand lit up by harsh lamplight and casting long shadows over her wincing frown. If she cares about Ava's hand print now permanently indented into her mahogany table, she doesn't think to show it in the midst of this makeshift surgery she's found herself performing. Minutes which feel like hours pass by in a silence interrupted only by the occasional snarl of pain, until finally, with an exhausted sigh of relief, the young woman straightens up. She cringes a little as she holds out her tweezers, which now grip the large, jagged shard of glass just recently pulled from Ava’s shoulder blade. 

_Trappers._ How she manages to _detest_ them more and more with every passing encounter is a feat for the ages. 

“That’s the last of it, I think,” Beatrice murmurs, setting down the blood-soaked glass with the rest of them. “How do you feel?” 

“I feel as if someone smashed a car window into my face with a DMB canister, detective,” Ava retorts, wiping blood off of her fingers and onto her irreparably stained sports bra. 

Beatrice nods. “Yeah. I guess I asked for that one.” 

Ava had half expected Triss to laugh, and so her lackluster response sends another, altogether different pain shooting up and into her heart. She feels her hand move as if pulled by phantom strings to reach across and hover above the detective's, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin but not quite so close as to enjoy it. Beatrice goes very still as she watches the hand deliberate, and then sags when Ava sets it back down against the cracked tabletop instead. 

“How’s your healing?” she asks after a moment, eyes downturned to assess the grizzled state of Ava's injuries. “Any progress yet?” 

Ava sighs and shakes her head. Were she to look, she knows she would be greeted by unclosed cuts and still-wet blood from injuries that _should_ have healed a good half hour ago. She doesn't _need_ to look; she only needs to be grateful that the majority of the glass had somehow managed avoided her face. 

Pulling glass out of her eyes has, from experience, never been pleasant. 

“They must have used an altered formula. Something far more potent than anything carried in Agency arsenals.” Ava winces as she shifts gingerly in her seat. _Pain_ she is all too used to; pain that doesn’t go away is another matter entirely. 

Triss seems to sense her unease and leans forwards slightly, though just like Ava only a moment before, her hand never fully closes the distance between them in the way Ava finds herself secretly hoping for. 

It’s not something she should be hoping for at all, she knows. That night at the carnival is to blame for this sudden weakening of her self-restraint, though Beatrice herself is surely responsible for its continued decline over the last few weeks. 

Still, she’s past the point of no return when it comes to making excuses for herself - when it comes to pretending the detective’s anxious gaze doesn’t make her own heart stutter guilty in her chest. “What’s important is that you were not harmed this evening, Detective Maddox.” 

“ _You_ were.” 

“Hardly. Any injuries I sustain are to be expected in this line of work. And I have sustained _far_ worse over the years, believe me.” 

“ _Ugh._ I don’t even want to _think_ about that, Ava.” 

Her own name still feels so new to her when it rolls of Beatrice’s tongue, and she bristles for a moment, before leaning forwards a little more intensely in the hopes of smoothing out the crinkled line of worry between the other woman’s brows. “You needn’t worry,” she says again. “Please. I’m quite alright, now that it’s over.” 

At that, Triss winces. “Yeah, uh . . .” 

“What?” 

“It’s not quite over yet. I think we need to do the full treatment. Cleaning, binding. Disinfecting.” 

“You _aren’t_ serious. What would be the point of that?” Ava blinks, and then covers the unnerving jolt of anxiety with a scowl. “ _No_ , detective. I’ll be healed soon enough – I am content to simply wait.” 

“You could be waiting a while. You said it yourself – you have no idea how potent that DMB is.” 

“Surely not _that_ strong. I’ll manage.” 

Beatrice shoots Ava a withering look, for once managing to appear genuinely frustrated instead of comically endearing. “You’re right. Maybe I should just take you back to the Agency, then. After all, I’m sure those wonderful doctors will be completely fine with you _managing_ an unknown chemical attack.” 

Ava stiffens as she remembers only a few weeks prior, and her brief time as a prisoner within the Agency hospital’s halls. It had been a nightmare _then_ – the thought of returning to Elidor’s incessant fussing after so little time has her letting out a groan that has nothing to do with physical pain. The detective, unfortunately, has her at an _impasse_. Something which seems to be becoming an annoying theme between them. 

“Fine,” Ava says shortly, crossing her hands over herself. “Do what you need to, then.” 

“Thank you. Although, I still think they could take better care of you than -” 

“ _No more hospitals_.” 

“ _No more hospitals_. Fine. Okay.” Beatrice sighs, and then promptly rises from her chair and disappears off into the distance, leaving Ava alone with her creeping nervousness, trying desperately to remember what _disinfecting_ even entails. 

Did she ever disinfect a wound while she was human? She can scarcely recall after all these years, though she sincerely doubts it. Her only real knowledge of the practice comes from the few films she’s been forced to sit through – actors pouring alcohol on themselves and promptly screaming in pain. _Wonderful._

The unknowing gnaws at her, but she keeps her expression pointedly blank, right up until Beatrice returns with an ominous white box and a bottle of red wine clutched in both hands. 

“You’re not planning on disinfecting with _that_ , I hope?” Ava asks sharply, her eyes narrowing at the bottle as the detective sets it down against the table. 

Triss scoffs, but there’s no humour to be found in her dark brown eyes. “ _No_ , Miss 1746. I’m planning on using iodine, like a normal person.” She lets out a sigh and bites her lip, before sliding the bottle to Ava with an apologetic attempt at a smile. “The wine is for you – something to take the edge off. You like red, yeah?” 

“Alcohol doesn’t effect vampires the way it does humans. This is useless to me.” 

“ _Right_ , because of your accelerated healing, yeah? How’s that working out for you?” 

Ava glowers. Beatrice raises a brow and waits. 

“You _do_ own a wine glass, yes?” Ava asks finally. 

The detective rolls her eyes. “I own _several_ , in fact. Should have known you were too good for the bottle.” 

She's back a moment later with a glass, and slaps Ava's hand away lightly when she reaches forwards to take it. "Let me handle it. That shoulder still looks temperamental – I don't want you fidgeting and bleeding on my carpet again.” 

Ava suspects she means it as a joke, but the shadow of worry remains steadily a part of her expression, even as she pours a generous serving of Merlot into a glass and slides it over to edge of the table. Ava savours the scent of it – pomegranate, earthy, surprisingly _expensive_ for what she would expect from Beatrice – before taking a sip that quickly descends into a long, desperate gulp. 

“That good, huh?” Ava’s cheeks warm, not from the wine, but from the sight of the first genuine smile Triss has given her all night. “It was a gift from a few birthdays back that I never got around to opening. Do you think ‘surviving an attempt on my life and the life of my loved ones’ still counts as a special occasion?” 

Ava swallows hard, the words _loved ones_ hitting like cannon fire against an already sinking ship. “Should you not save it, then? It was a gift for _you_ , not I, after all.” 

“Pretty sure the aunt that gave it to me pulled it out of some company gift hamper at the last minute, so no, I can't say I'll miss it. I prefer Chardonnay, anyway.” 

“Of course you do.” 

Too late, she catches herself smiling back at the detective, who watches her curiously for a long moment, before her returning smile wavers and fades back into melancholy. She hides it well, as always, but it's easy to see through the façade with the lamplight shining so clear against her pretty features. She chews on her lip with worry as she reaches for her first aid kit, taking her seat again at the chair closest to Ava and then shifting it closer still. Close enough that Ava can feel the detective's breath raise goosebumps along her neck. 

She smells like strawberries, only better. Sweeter. 

Ava wonders if she might taste like strawberries, too. Would it linger on her lips afterwards? Her clothes, her hair? Would – 

“Do you want to hold my hand?” 

_Yes? May I?_ “What?” 

Beatrice frowns, holding up a small glass bottle marked IODINE. “Most people find it helps with the pain. Holding someone’s hand, I mean” 

“I'm a nine hundred year old vampire, not _most people_ ,” Ava mutters, frustrated by another jolt of nerves. “No, thank you.” 

Beatrice purses her lips, but says nothing, and Ava watches as she sets to work, pouring a dash of the bottle's clear liquid onto a cotton ball and holding it up to the light. She scarcely breathes under the weight of the heavy silence pressing between them. 

“Let me know if it hurts, alright?” she says gently. 

Ava scowls, and downs remaining half of her wine like it were a shot. “It won't.” 

“Well if it _does_ – “ 

“Yes. Fine. I shall let you know.” 

It does hurt, incidentally. Not so much as being stabbed or shot or choked by DMB, but it hurts, in its own, frustratingly _mortal_ sort of way. Ava doesn't make good on her promise, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead, not daring to move as the detective dabs and prods at her injuries with care. 

“Have you done this before, detective?” 

Beatrice smiles. “Would it shock you to know that I've ran with tougher crowds than you and yours, Agent du Mortain?” 

“ _Shock_ me, no, but I would hardly believe you. _No one_ is tougher than me,” Ava replies with a frown. 

Triss scoffs, though any following reply is cut off by a sharp hiss as her hands press too rough against Ava's bruising shoulder. Like fate or, more realistically, like a bad joke, Ava feels her hand reach instinctively to grasp at Triss's. 

“Oh, _oh_ , oh no, I'm so sorry!” The younger woman exclaims in horror. 

“It's – _ah!_ –“ Ava winces and looks down at her shoulder, and the fresh stream of crimson beginning to trickle from it. “It's fine.” 

Triss shakes her head, not seeming to hear her at all. “I didn't mean to, I'm sorry –“ 

“Detective, I said it's – “ 

“I’m so sorry for all of it, Ava, I am.” 

Ava looks up from her injury to meet the detective’s eyes, wide and distressed and _so kind so beautiful the brown shines near golden in the lamplight like ore in an old mine like brass in a duststorm like the glint of old coins at the bottom of a well and_

“Ava?” 

Triss squeezes her hand, a comforting little thing, and Ava only now realizes that she's still holding onto her. 

She _should_ let go. She doesn't. “What do you possibly have to feel sorry about, detective?” 

Triss laughs mirthlessly as she gestures at Ava's person. “How about Exhibit A, for starters? I think I'll call it, _‘Commanding Agent Attacked For The Third Time In Two Weeks.’_ Or, is that too wordy?” 

“None of this is your fault. You know that.” 

“Do I?” The detective bites her lip to keep it from wobbling, and squeezes Ava's hand again – not for Ava's comfort this time, but for her own. “I _hate_ endangering you, Ava. I feel sick inside just thinking of when the next attack will come – and it will – and how there's absolutely nothing I can do to prevent it.” 

Ava leans forwards intently, her other hand coming to rest over their entwined fingers without thinking. “You worry about this often, then?” 

“I worry about _you_ often. I don't want you to get hurt because of me.” 

The warmth of it – the shocking sentiment of it – is maddening to the point where Ava seriously considers just kissing her right here and now and getting this whole sorry affair over with. She bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood before she has the chance to act on such a terrible idea. “You are more than worth a little pain, Beatrice.” 

“Oh, so that’s my legacy, is it? Your _pain_? I don't accept that.” 

“No, you wouldn't, would you? You're far too stubborn.” Ava smiles. “Acceptance or not, it won't change the truth of the matter, as I see it; that this is my duty, my life, and I am aware of the many risks such a life entails.” 

“Ava . . . “ 

“ _Nothing_ that has happened over the course of these last few months have been your fault, and so your apologies are misplaced –“ 

“ _Ava_ – “ 

“ – You needn't be weighed down by guilt. I would take it from you if I could. I hate seeing you so -" 

“Hush, Ava, _look_.” 

It's Triss’s quiet laughter that prevents Ava from admitting something she can't take back, and she blinks in confusion at the smiling woman before her, only to follow her line of sight down to her own chest. 

Her own unmarred, perfectly healed chest. 

“Oh.” 

Triss lets out a soft, relieved sigh, finally pulling her hand from Ava’s as she leans back against the hard wood of her chair to regard her. Ava sits up straight in turn, rolling her shoulders back experimentally and relishing the lack of pain that follows. Only the memory of the wounds remains, lingering in the form of bloodstained cotton and iodine drying against bare skin. 

“That’s one problem down,’ Triss says quietly. “I guess you’re off the hook for tonight.” 

The end of Ava’s cut off confession still lingers in the air like wisps of smoke, but when Beatrice meets her eyes the tone shifts more into something akin to understanding. _Knowing._ With another, far more light-hearted sigh, Triss reaches over for the bottle of Merlot, taking a long swig straight from the bottle. 

“I thought you weren’t a fan,” Ava says quietly, watching the tilt of the detective’s neck as she drinks. 

Triss sets the bottle down, wincing a little at the taste. “I _said_ I prefer Chardonnay. But . . . no, I’m not a fan.” 

Ava cocks up a brow. “And yet you’re drinking it anyway?” 

“It’s been a long, _long_ day. Besides,” Triss lifts up the bottle for another drink, before shooting her a rueful smile, “it goes down better with good company.” 

“I am the _furthest_ thing from good company, detective. You would have better luck with Nate, or Farah, perhaps.” 

“I don’t want Nate or Farah.” 

“You - you don’t want . . .” 

“Oh.” Beatrice looks away with a wide-eyed blush, cringing a little. She reaches for the bottle and takes another gulp, a little quicker than before and a lot more awkward. “I just meant to drink with. Right now. I didn’t mean – oh, _wow_ , is this wine strong, or . . . ?” 

“It - yes, it must be. I – I understood. Under _stand_. What you meant.” 

“Okay. _Whew!_ Good.” 

“Good.” 

“Good!” 

They both look away, Ava biting her lip and cursing every wretched butterfly in her stomach to hell and back. The detective looks as if she’s doing the same, only she follows it up a moment later with a self-deprecating chuckle, turning back to face the other woman ruefully and with any prior embarrassment forgotten. 

“I don’t think it’s the wine, Ava,” she murmurs, and leans forwards as if she were giving away a secret. “I think _we_ might just be terrible at this.” 

Ava sighs, reaching to refill her own glass. “I suppose I’ll drink to that, then.” 

“So you’ll stay? For a while longer?” 

Ava hears the remnants of what was once her self-restraint, now little more than a dying whimper in the dark. If she concentrates, she’ll hear its warnings, hear it beg for her to get up and end this nonsense or, at the very least, to delay the inevitable for another long and lonely night. 

It’s good advice. It’s the logical thing to do. It’s the _right_ thing to do. 

“Yes, I’ll - I’ll stay,” Ava says instead. “For the wine. And . . . and for the good company.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading ! i'm sorry for the lack of content this month - my creativity has been quite low over the last few weeks, which is ironic, since all i've actually Wanted to do is write lmao. anyways i hope yall enjoyed this, and as always comments and kudos are always appreciated ! 
> 
> ps - i'm currently planning out smth a little more ~spicy~ which i'll try to get out as soon as i can !


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